


the gentlest feeling

by Iambic



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Pining, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 14:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4439252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/pseuds/Iambic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sera teases, Vivienne tuts, Dorian smiles, and the Iron Bull learns how to pine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the gentlest feeling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tofsla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/gifts).



> I wanted to reward myself for getting the rough draft of my minibang in, so I, ever the fool, asked Toft for a prompt. Eleven thousand words later, here we are. Someday I will learn that my days of writing short things are lost to the past, and it is only long rambles from here on out.

Jasmine doesn't grow on the Storm Coast. In fact, it doesn't grow anywhere south of the Waking Sea, and it damn sure isn't native to the Free Marches or Nevarra. It also usually doesn't smell this light up close, so points to Dorian for taste.

“Get that oil imported all the way from Tevinter?” the Bull asks, catching up with him. They've spent too much time in each others' company; Dorian doesn't even flinch. A few pine needles stick to his shoulder. The Bull reaches up a hand and flicks them away.

Dorian, once liable to puff up and spit like a cat, quirks a smile. “Antiva, actually. One of our esteemed merchants had it in stock. I didn't even need an excuse to visit Val Royeaux.”

A trip to Val Royeaux takes just over two weeks if you ride hard and don't sleep much the whole way. Even Dorian, vain as he is, wouldn't bother for something so trivial. Next time they're in northern Orlais, or maybe if the Chargers head up that way, though...

“Anyway,” says Dorian, “if I had special-ordered it, I'd have gone for sandalwood.”

Sandalwood. Every tree they slog past jogs the word in the Bull's head. Jasmine's a good scent for Dorian – florals do good things for him in general, which isn't just a biased opinion, because Vivienne agrees – but sandalwood, that would suit him better. Not such a clear or sweet smell, something that might hang in the cluttered space that Dorian keeps in the library, overlooking the training yard. A wasted view, it turns out, because no matter how many times the Bull looks up, Dorian's never looking back.

Black lotus has that kind of thick aroma when crushed – and in the Bull's hands, it's always crushed – but the smell itself is wrong, sickly sweet like rotted fruit. The boss thanks him absently when he passes the flower to her and stuffs it into a pouch on her belt. The fumes of rotted fruit remain. The Bull's hands are now stained bruise purple; a quick scrub in the seawater only somewhat masks it with the smell of brine.

He crosses the beach to where Dorian stands, watching the waves, only looking a little green around the gills. It's probably bad form to sniff him. Still, the Bull leans in as close as he can get away with, just to cleanse his palate a bit. “You wanna take a break and go skinny-dipping? You get used to the cold if you jump in all at once, you know.”

That gets one of those timeless scoffs. Dorian Pavus, a master of nuance in all his reactions. “I'll do no such thing,” he snaps, which isn't a no to the Bull's actual question, as it happens. “You, on the other hand, I suggest not even bothering to remove what offensively little clothing you wear at all; you reek.”

In this case, Dorian's probably not even exaggerating. Black lotus is pungent. The Bull grins anyway, and shakes the sand out of his ankle brace. “Nah, I'm not gonna ruin the show for you.”

“Your first mistake is assuming there is anything in this world that could compel me to watch you jump nude into the sea.” Dorian's in fine form today – gone are the times of accusations and insults meant to wound. This is a game. Sharp rebuttals to outrageous flirtation, until someone gets the last word in, or until Dorian figures out that the ball's been in his court this whole time.

Hopefully, that doesn't take too much longer.

-

The Bull leaves his door unlocked and ajar the first night back, but Dorian doesn't come. A damned shame, really; if Dorian had only shown up, he definitely would have.

-

Story time, with the Chargers. The usual guests as well: Sera, Blackwall, Dorian, even the boss. Harding had to leave, something about saying her goodbyes before returning to the field, so it looks like someone is getting a return on her flowers. Apparently in Ferelden there's some kind of code around them, some kind of romantic shit. It's sweet, if kind of overwrought. No harm done, though, picking flowers.

If Tevinter had flower codes, they'd probably say things like _meet me in the upper gardens for the blood ritual_ or _Magister So-And-So's kicking the bucket tonight, so don't drink the Sun Blonde_ – maybe a couple like _you're a handsome fellow, I know a discreet corner_  and _those trousers are an insult to draperies everywhere_ , even.

“—had this huge dawnstone axe, all aurum filigree down the haft, so he was an even bigger hit at parties.” Krem pauses, wincing, so Skinner punches him hard in the shoulder as penance. Not one of these assholes appreciates good humor. Except Dorian, it turns out, leaning back to laugh with nothing but delight on his face.

It's still not a look the Bull gets to see much.

He's looking at Dorian, but Blackwall turns around and gets in the way. “Dawnstone, eh?” He strokes his beard, which would look a hell of a lot more dignified if it weren't covered in foam. “Thought you'd be more of a bloodstone kind of fellow.”

“Can't see the actual blood on it,” the Bull says, shrugging. “Plus—”

“Chief likes pretty things.” Skinner cuts him off, showing her teeth, and then makes a big deal of looking over Dorian's way. She earns a chorus of snorts, one of which belongs to Dorian, and one offer to drink to that, from Stitches. There's probably a second offer there, if Dorian were to go looking, and it'd definitely be a good night for all involved. Granted, the Bull would never hear the end of it if one of his own boys beat him to it.

The Bull stands up, and gets a few weird looks. “Another round,” he says, and remembers he was grinning at some point. “I can think of a few more things to drink to.”

A hint of jasmine, walking past Dorian. The Bull's hand twitches with nothing to hold, no real excuse to justify the way he hesitates, just slightly, before moving on.

-

Vivienne favors a light citrus scent, which she dabs behind her ears while the Bull leans against the railing that overlooks the main hall. “Do not think I've forgotten my intentions to introduce you to my tailor, Bull,” she says, stern. She really did miss her calling as a tamassran. “With Josephine’s plans to secure invitation to Halamshiral slowly falling into place, it won't do to have you looking quite so rustic. And you did seem rather charmed with the coat I suggested.”

The Bull gives her that. Every woman will want you, she'd assured him, and every man will want to be you. And perhaps – her eyes had twinkled when she said this – perhaps the reverse, as well.

“Long way to Val Royeaux,” he says.

When Vivienne looks his way, her perfect eyebrows arch, but that's definitely a smile on her lips. “Beauty is pain, darling. The Inquisitor intends to pay the Western Approach a visit; we will simply have to take a detour.”

It's completely possible that Vivienne’s had a hand in crafting his armor already; that, or the boss has similar thoughts about the way the Bull dresses himself. His pants keep coming back slimmer and unstained, in complementary colours, like practicality just doesn't cut it. Hard to figure what they don't get about it. Mercenary work, Ben-Hassrath work before that – and look, he can think that without having to break something now, even if he has to notice every time – doesn't need fashion. Maximum range of mobility, enough metal to get between you and the other guy's weapon, maybe a certain amount of obvious danger, these are what he needs from what he wears. Style and aesthetics don't mean shit with a sword through your gut.

Someone like Vivienne, now, they're gonna need those looks. The Bull didn't really get it before he took the Inquisition job; fancy dress never helped those 'Vints back in Seheron, and Dalish always wore whatever Skinner looted or Stitches sewed for her. Solas gets on without that flashy shit, but that's his fighting style showing through. Vivienne's magic involves as much performance as power. It's a good strategy, intimidation, since there's no way she'd even let anyone underestimate her. If you can't surprise 'em, overwhelm 'em instead.

Dorian does the same thing. If you have to be visible some way or another, at least take advantage of it.  Stare down an army or the Orlesian court and take command with the confidence that you had it all along. Take up twice as much space as anyone else on a battlefield, or be the loudest one at the tavern. Walk out into a world where everyone hates something essential to who you are, and give them something better to talk about.

Maybe someday all of them find a place where that isn't all they need to be.

“My dear, you've drifted off on me,” says Vivienne, though there's no rebuke in her tone, and when the Bull returns his gaze from the middle distance she's smiling at him. “It's rather unlike you.”

The Bull snorts. “Ehh, everyone gathers wool once in a while. Too much time to think when I'm not out hitting things.”

Vivienne doesn't sigh, but she does shake her head. “If you long for a fight so badly, I would be amenable to joining you in the sparring ring. It seems our good Ambassador will not be joining me this afternoon, after all.” Her eyes slide away from the Bull, to smile down toward Josephine's office. “It is good that even the Lady Montilyet has learned to take time to rejuvenate.”

“Something like that, anyway.” There'd been a scout party returning during morning practice with the Chargers, and Krem and Dalish stopped to wave long enough long enough for Skinner to jab Krem in the neck with one of her wooden practice knives, and Rocky, dirty fighter that he is, to knock Dalish on her ass with a kick to the back of the knee.

“Ah,” Vivienne says, somewhat wistfully, “the innocence of young romance.”

-

The road, and the rocky slope to one side, look pretty clear at the moment. The Chargers are getting restless; Snofleur over with the actual archers keeps cracking her joints while Bit next to her winces with every crunch, and Maul keeps kicking up dust. Skinner dropped to all fours a while back. Her Throatcutters have started to follow suit, Skinner being a pretty bad influence, but feral's not the worst attribute to pick up in the world. Better than Dalish, anyway, who keeps feeling herself up without Skinner to do it for her.

“Keep it in your shirt,” the Bull mutters, and Dalish grins, but leaves her tits alone after that.

A wind picks up. Lucky for them, it's headed east and not south, so the clank and shuffle of their small company of bored soldiers won't carry down to their possible assailants. Still, the Bull motions for silence.

And there they are, the hushed but heated voices just downhill. Not such a bright lot, then, if they're planning on actually engaging with the Chargers.They already gave themselves away, and it's a long way to cover once they leave the treeline. A quick flash from one of the trees says the scouts are in place. The Bull quarter-turns to the left: flush 'em out.

Why does the image come to him now? Dorian, this morning, sleep-rumpled and unarmored, smiling absently at the roasted pear remaining on his plate. The pear he devoured, but the smile stayed, even when the Bull sat down across the pine table and said, _good morning_.

He shakes it from his eyes like the rain on the Fereldan coast, until all he sees are the shifting stances of his archers, and behind them the sharp cliffs and peaks of the Frostbacks.

-

“I'm beginning to worry about you,” Dorian says, wiping blood from the blade of his staff. It had splashed across the hem of his draped robe, too, but the Bull sure as fuck isn't gonna be the one to tell him about that. Grass stains got there first, anyway. The robe is probably a loss already.

He chuckles instead. “That's sweet, but like you keep saying, I'm pretty tough.”

That should get a witty rejoinder, or at least an outraged retort, but Dorian just purses his lips. “You haven't made a single ham-handed pass at me since the Storm Coast. It's extremely uncharacteristic.”

So he's noticed. The Bull has indeed backed off. It's not like he hasn't made it hugely clear what he wants, and despite Dorian's constant assertions he does actually know when to stop kicking a dead bronto. His axe is covered in dried blood; if Vivienne were here she'd be cross with him, but then if she were here, Dorian wouldn't be.

But since Dorian's asking...

“You saying you miss it? I can always keep it coming, if you want. People tell me I'm good at that.”

“Spare me the double entendres.” Dorian looks pained. “I only wondered why you'd stopped.”

The Bull heaves his axe back over his shoulders to hook it back in place, huffs more than the effort should've warranted. The boss has her hands full – literally – looting the bodies of red templars, and Varric's carefully retrieving bolts to stick back in his girlfriend, the cad. Back up to Dorian, whose lips keep pressing together and who actually looks concerned now. “Made you an offer, didn't I?” the Bull replies with a shrug. “Figured if you were actually interested, you'd show up sometime, and if you didn't show, there's no point chasing you down.”

The sound Dorian makes doesn't read as surprised, or dismayed, or relieved; honestly, the Bull doesn't have a fucking clue what it means. He chews on his bottom lip, attention turned away to fold up the cloth now covered with all the shit he scraped off his staff. But he looks back at the Bull out of the corner of his eye. Straightening, there's no sign of it, no extra red to his cheeks. Used to be, Dorian would blush easy with the right encouragement.

“I'm rather appalled to admit I miss it,” Dorian is saying, tart but not actually disgusted, and one corner of his mouth lifts a little. Sunlight mottles the grass around them, and some spills onto his face, transporting him from attractive to stunning. Tevinter had been criminal to force him into shadowy corners and dark rooms when he's so obviously meant to be seen.

Behind Dorian and little to the right, the boss stands up from the last corpse to be looted. They should get going. The Bull stays where he is. “Hey, say the word, it'll be like I never stopped.”

He didn't mean to make it sound so serious. Dorian looks kind of taken aback too, but he rallies soon enough, with his showman's smile. “Far be it from me to deny you one of life's few pleasures, I suppose.” He flaps a hand, lazy. “Do continue.”

“Heard that one before,” the Bull says, grinning, and Dorian only rolls his eyes.

-

The jasmine oil comes to an end a few days after they get back. The Bull catches on immediately, because with his recently-granted permission, he's gone back to getting into Dorian's space given any excuse. Not specifically to smell him, but that's a nice side effect of leaning in to try and get him to blush. Usually he'll turn around to swat the Bull away, but sometimes he shivers first.

“You're sweet on him,” Sera accuses him in the Herald's Rest, perched on the second story railing with way more poise than the Bull would ever have managed. That is, if he could even sit there at all without bringing the whole thing down.

“Haven't been on him yet,” the Bull says, leering. Sera snorts. “Working on it, though.”

“Not what I meant!” Sera singsongs, loud enough for Cabot to scowl up at them. She quiets down after that; it's one thing to annoy your friends and comrades, and completely another to piss off your bartender. “You wanna buy him prezzies, hold his hand, you know. Romantic shite like that.”

Sandalwood, the Bull thinks before he can shake the notion free. Nah, that isn't romance, that's self-interest. A nice fantasy, passing Dorian by and smelling the gift he'd given, faint along the back of Dorian's neck. Almost like smelling himself there.

But Sera's decidedly disinterested in hearing about the Bull's exploits fucking men, so no point in explaining that. He laughs instead. “You're forgetting we don't do that shit under the Qun.”

“Thought you weren't anymore,” Sera says, and for a second she actually looks serious. It doesn't last. “'Sides, just because you don't, doesn't mean you can’t.”

The Bull shakes his head. There's no point trying to explain it to someone who never lived that way. “And just because you can, doesn't mean you should.”

-

Predictably, that's not the end of the matter. Back in the tavern that night, the usual crowd, the boss's round halfway finished between the lot of them. The Bull's been watching the show play out, Krem needling a blushing Harding, Dalish getting her fill of Skinner feeling her up, and they're sure not gonna last the night – Sera going on about peaches, while Blackwall looks more and more like one of those cactus fruit that grow in Seheron.

“Awfully quiet over there, Chief,” Stitches says, collecting his most recent Wicked Grace winnings from Varric and a scowling Rocky. “Got a rock stuck in one of your horns?”

The Bull gets beaten to the punch. “Bull's in love,” Sera cackles. He just rolls his eyes in response. Play it like a joke, because that's what it is, no matter what Sera claims to think. The gathered Chargers all laugh right along, but Blackwall sends him a curious look, and the boss is grinning like Satinalia just came twice.

Ironically, Dorian of all people comes to the rescue. “Oh, that's no news at all, Sera. Anyone with an ear around him knows he's in quite a passionate relationship with the sound of his own voice.”

The Bull snorts. “Think that's you, actually.”

A pause, while Dorian makes an exaggerated act of considering it. “No, no, you're quite right. In love with the smell of your own farts, then.”

“Isn't everyone?” Blackwall asks, with the air of a man who has seen much and accepted all. Stitches and Dalish groan, the boss edges away, and like that the focus shifts from the Bull and his imagined affections.

Not all the focus. The Bull takes a long pull at his ale, and when he puts the mug down, Dorian's still watching him curiously. It's the same kind of look he gets when the boss finds some ancient rune in a cave, or a map to some old ruins. Generally it finds him in the library as well, between rants and grumbling and that thing he does when he's concentrating too hard to notice the world around him, frowning, with the dampened end of his quill in the corner of his mouth.

“See something you like?” the Bull quips, when Dorian fails to say anything.

Uncharacteristically, Dorian doesn't get flustered, doesn't reach for a comeback. He curls a hand to rest his chin against. “I had been laboring under the impression that Qunari don't do 'in love,' but I'm sure you're quite aware of the glaring untruths in my understanding of your – of the Qun.”

The Bull taps the two whole fingers of his maimed hand against the table, _one-two-three, one-two_. “Might have noticed, yeah.”

“You know. One or two.” Dorian smiles then, the small sly smile of an inside joke. It's... weird, but good, how they've become not only comfortable comrades but actual friends. How it's not just the Bull and his easy fondness for people he has to take time to figure out. Dorian looks at him now, mellow instead of suspicious. “So,” he says, “am I right in this, at least?”

He remembers Sera, impatient with his explanation, _just because you don't doesn't mean you can't_. Dorian would probably understand a lot better. Tevinter's not so different, though they couch it in elaborate excuses. Dorian's clearly loved before, no matter how understandably cagey he is on the subject. He's not exactly the perfect model of a 'Vint, but he can't be the only one.

“Yeah,” the Bull replies, “there's no romance under the Qun.”

Dorian nods, satisfied, and turns his attention back to the spectacle on the other side of the table. Sera's pressing Blackwall's cheeks together so his mouth looks like it should go on a fish, making kissy noises, while Dalish's giggles threaten to send the back of her chair over and her with it.

-

Vivienne is sketching. It's not exactly surprising that she has a good hand for it, just something that hadn't occurred to the Bull that she would enjoy. They sit on the wall together while the Bull writes reports he no longer has a reason to send, and Vivienne details the towers and people of Skyhold, or the harsh angles of the river. The sun has warmed the afternoon, and Vivienne graces it with bared arms and a wide neckline.

_Preparations for establishing presence in Western Approach underway, the Bull writes. Moderate force accmp; Hdg reports significant Venatori activity w/in strategically placed fortress. Main aim to smoke them out, but Clln thinks fortress itself useful mltr base to cut off Venatori land invasion._

_M.d.F. planning detour through Val Royeaux on return trip. Will check in w contacts for_

Next to him, Vivienne has begun to hum a popular Orlesian tune from a few years back, before the war. The Bull sings the next refrain – the original one, not the version Bit made up – and she smiles his way. It's good to see her relaxed. She wields her dispassion as skillfully as her magic, but keeps it unsheathed wherever anyone could see her. Why she puts it down with the Bull around, it's hard to say – but he's not gonna question a good friendship when he's got it.

“A colleague of mine fancied herself a musician.” Vivienne's tone is nostalgic, far away. “She took to the harpsichord, earned patronage from a young philanthropist, and did quite well for herself. She was never a particularly powerful mage, but her control was impressive. She wrote that song.”

“She still writing?” The answer probably isn't a good one, but if Vivienne feels the call to talk about it, the Bull's happy to listen.

But Vivienne chuckles. “I imagine so. She retreated from the public eye when the war began, which allowed her to remain while the rebels fled. The court seemed to value her higher as a musician than they distrusted her as a mage.” She looks down at her page, and with a nod places it beside her on the stone. “Of course, the only magic she performs lately she devotes exclusively to the care of her instrument and the hands that play it. A sensible woman, if given to impractical fancies.”

“Wouldn't say that,” says the Bull. “Music's important. Brings people together, gives 'em something that isn't tainted by whatever's fucking them over now. It's good to have some peace in wartime.”

Vivienne touches two fingers to her lips, looking back to the river and the mountains beyond. “Well said, darling. I believe you may have the right of it.”

_Will check for concerts during time there. M.d.F. could use break. Maybe bring Drn, Vrc along. Could use break too._

_To pick up:_

_horn balm_   
_armor schematics for boss_   
_new pillow_   
_sandalwood scent_   
_guimauves_   
_cocoa_

-

They set out for the Western Approach in the morning, but the Bull's packed and ready, Krem has his orders, and the tavern is quiet for once. Makes sense, since at least half the patrons leave early in the morning, but that leaves him with nothing to do for the evening. The sun's only just gone down, so he won't sleep even if he tries. He could go find a tumble, sure, and he's got half a mind to do just that, but someone else fancies themself a musician, if the notes wafting down into the courtyard are any indication.

The Bull traces the sound up to the gardens, considers scaling the wall, and settles on walking through the main hall to watch through the garden door, so as not to disturb the man he suspects to be sitting there.

Here the notes ring clearer, though still a dark, resonant sound. Dorian sits on the inside walkway, cradling the oud from his library nook, teasing out phrases with no particular themes. Tevinter scales, just shy of discordant. Unhurried. His eyes, so far as the Bull can see, are shut, his mouth just slightly open, long fingers trailing up and down the strings.

It's a plaintive melody he forms now, discovering patterns in complex timing. The Bull counts beats, finds seven. With a name like that, the Bull's not surprised to learn Dorian plays, but it's one thing to think and another to stand in a doorway, in the growing dark, listening to something so genuine played so openly.

He had meant to walk out, give Dorian some shit for holding out on him, but it doesn't seem right anymore. This is something personal. Something to be respected.

-

“You gonna eat that?” Sera peers over Dorian's shoulder, where half his bowl of stew has been cooling, undisturbed, for the past ten minutes.

Dorian smiles, just barely, and hands it up to her without turning around. “I'll warn you, it's gone cold.”

“Well, heat it up, then!” Sera wrinkles her tanned and freckled nose. Almost everyone with pale skin has gone pink instead in the two weeks they've traveled steadily west. Both Sera and Cassandra, not really pale to begin with, have burnt brown – Sera ruddier, Cassandra gold, the same tone Krem gets in the sun. The folks in Nevarra and western Tevinter share more than a border.

It's harder to catch, though, when mostly they're all the colour of the dust that coats each of them. Even the Bull's gone dun like the rest of them. Qunari don't really tan, though sometimes they'll bleach out. The boss' shoulders and the top of her head have gradually burnished, much to the respective curiosity and laughter of her inner circle. Vivienne spent some time looking her over and taking down notes, and later conferred with Dorian, so there's probably some new formal wear coming her way after their business in the ass end of Orlais.

Dorian finishes the fire glyph at the bottom of the bowl and hands it back to an impatient Sera. “The center of the bowl will stay hot for the next few minutes,” he warns, not fast enough for Sera to avoid burning a finger and almost dropping it. She sticks the finger in her mouth and glares at him, before muttering away with her prize.

“Not hungry?” the Bull asks, once she's gone.

A pause, while Dorian looks at his hands instead of up at the Bull. “Not in the mood for it, I suppose.”

Already pretty dark, despite never seeing the sun all winter and most of spring, Dorian's fast approaching Vivienne's usual shade. He's been taking full advantage of the Orlesian summer heat, leaving his sleeve off and chest exposed, and despite his complaints about the dry – he wouldn't be Dorian Pavus if he didn't find something to complain about – he's clearly basking it in. Also carefully oiling his skin every night. No scent. Apparently his merchant at Skyhold is out of stock.

All in all, he seems to be doing pretty well, except for the fact that he's not eating enough. It's the third night in a row he hasn't finished dinner. “You doing okay?”

“I'm perfectly well, thank you very much,” Dorian informs him, tart again. “It's certainly not my fault that these burly soldier types make their stew thick enough to build a wall with.”

At least an exaggeration, if not an outright lie. It's not really the Bull's business if Dorian doesn't want to eat as much as usual – only, it's no good if he's not at full strength in the event of another skirmish, or if he gets sick. There's always some kind of bug going around with this many people in constant close quarters. The Bull worries about this kind of shit. “You don't seem to mind on shorter trips.”

“The scouts have the courtesy to use vegetables. Perhaps a novelty to you, but I assure you they are a truly necessary component to any edible dish.” Dorian sniffs. It's getting dark again, and somewhere among the tents, someone's got a whistle and a drum out. It sounds like a good round of singing. Maybe sometime Dorian can be convinced to bring the oud along; music's always good for morale.

He doesn't seem likely to voice whatever's eating him, though. A new tactic it is. “What do you think we'll find out there, anyway?”

“Sand,” Dorian says promptly. “Deadly wildlife. Old Warden ruins, I imagine, they're always around the site of a previous Blight. An unfortunate collection of the worst of Tevinter, and, according to Hawke's friend, some grandiose Grey Warden plot to put an end to.”

“Don't forget the big fortress we're clearing out.”

The Bull grins, and Dorian purses his lips. “Of course,” he says, deadpan, raising both eyebrows. “How could I possibly leave that out.”

“I'm thinking dragons.” The Bull grins wider, just to see Dorian roll his eyes as well. They should probably revive the fire soon; Varric over by his tent looks like he's getting cold as the heat drops with the last of the light, and in the absence of light, Dorian's face is barely readable now. “I'm hoping dragons. Bandits, probably. A whole lot of deathroot.”

“Avi will be thrilled, no doubt,” says Dorian. The boss does love her poisons and grenades.

It doesn't seem like Dorian's gonna give up the goods, at least not tonight. The Bull winces at his knee, gets slowly to his feet. “Tell you what. I'm gonna grab some wood, you get the fire going again. I think Varric's gonna tear his coat over there, the way he's pulling on it.”

“Hey, I'm a city slicker,” Varric protests, but without taking his hands out of his pockets or relaxing his tight hold on that coat. “I'm not built for this kind of extreme either. You don't see me complaining, though.”

Dorian laughs, which makes the jab worth it. As the Bull heads over toward the wood pile, Dorian says something about how there's more than one way to complain – he's still laughing, but something about his delivery makes it sound like he's hitting himself a little too close to home.

-

When the boss slices down the door it's like she kicked an anthill; Venatori come swarming out from every opening. The Bull and Cole run in while Cassandra helps the boss hold the doorway, and then it's a mad rush of knocking down mages and locking up the guys with shields and mauls while Cole guts 'em from behind. When the Venatori outside are taken care of, the Bull can only assume, the soldiers and ranged fighters join in. Dorian's got ice in his hair, and Vivienne's collar is scorched on one side; some blade or arrow grazed Sera's shoulder, but it's a shallow cut. All this the Bull catalogues in an instant. There's no time to catch more.

They push the Venatori up the stairs onto the stone ramparts, and the boss splits off with Sera and Blackwall and five soldiers to take the ramparts. Vivienne takes her usual spot just a little back from the Bull's blind side, alternating between lightning strikes and quick thrusts with her spellblade, following behind when he rushes the enemy, not support so much as the second prong of their attack. It's all blood and haze, pushing forward across the stone to the next set of stairs up. The Bull shrugs off a fireball – though it's gonna hurt like fuck later on – and cleaves another warrior in two as she slices his unprotected shoulder, saving his collarbone at least.

At the end of it he's heaving for air, bleeding sluggishly from a collection of wounds he doesn't remember taking, while Vivienne stretches her back and arms. Over by the newly replaced flag, Solas is bandaging an unapologetic Inquisitor's forehead, while Cassandra leans against the wall nearby. She looks unhurt, just exhausted. Cullen and some of his soldiers come and go, carrying the bodies of the dead down to the desert to burn; they didn't lose many, but they lost enough.

Someone blacked Dorian's eye, and the Bull can already see swelling and the start of what's gonna be a really impressive bruise. He's keeping weight off one leg, too. Bold fighter, powerful mage, but he keeps running into close combat and casting his barriers on other people. It's honestly shocking he doesn't get worse hurt.

 _That looks bad. Need someone to set up your tent and carry you to it?_ There's gotta be a line in there somewhere. _You know, that bruise makes you looking pretty dashing._ Dorian scowls at something Sera calls to him from her perch on the wall above the stairs up. _Now you've got a war story for all the pretty boys back home_.

No, that one's wrong. Skyhold is home, now, but the Bull can't know if Dorian feels the same. He's got a country he plans to return to, an intent to make it better, and even though he left, even though it's done nothing but spit on him – well, the Bull can relate.

 _You should take a break. We've got the keep, now, the boss doesn't need everyone to come exploring with her. Take it easy for once_.

He lets it go. It's not really his business, what Dorian does.

-

The boss stays behind with Cassandra, Solas, and Varric, but the rest of them head back to Skyhold – there's not exactly a shortage of work there. Blackwall passes, but the rest of them stop in Val Royeaux as planned.

The Bull still has contacts here, informants who didn't know he was Ben-Hassrath, mercs he's worked with in the past, the odd drinking buddy. Most of 'em don't know much about fancy music performances, but Sandros the former archer-turned-merchant points him to the concert hall. There's always something going on there, apparently.

“Uncertain, unwilling, unknown,” Cole says, appearing beside the Bull on the way to investigate upcoming concerts. The market's going upscale around them – might be a good time, afterward, to do some of his shopping. Cocoa, especially, doesn't go for cheap.

Beside him, Cole watches expectantly. Apparently he wants a response. “Yeah, kid. That's true of most of life.”

“You never really know.” Cole's eyes always look too young and too old at the same time. Wide and childlike, but also staring really hard at whatever's in his line of sight. Like he knows something no one else could ever understand. “That's what she told me. You have to wait and find out.”

They end up seeing an opera. Sera hates it, Cole loves it, and Dorian and Vivienne spend most of it critiquing the costume and narrative choices in low voices. The posturing is all overdramatic and the few fight scenes are mostly symbolic, but the singing itself is pretty impressive. To be honest, the Bull doesn't really watch the stage all that much.

-

Two mugs, halfway drunk, and the wooden table stand in front of Dorian, a wall and two gates between them. Two pints, dark and bitter, beyond all the drinks the Chargers bought them, have begun to climb up the Bull's veins. Calling him drunk would be an insult to both the ale and his gut, but it's a start. Dorian watches him in a moment of organic silence. That's a start, too.

“I think,” Dorian says, “that something must definitely be wrong with you.”

An old favourite. “What, something else?”

He gets a surprised laugh from Dorian, one hah! that rises above the ambient chatter. “Much as I adore exploring your hidden deficiencies, in this case I'm actually concerned. About you. Shocking, I know.”

A table, an empty mug, and one a quarter way full between them now. The Bull motions for another round. “Still worried about me? Careful there, Dorian, I'm gonna start thinking you like me.”

Another laugh, but this one's quieter, like he was ready for it. Dorian downs the rest of his drink, and hands the mug over to Elina, the scarred and solid but cheerful barmaid who works there most nights. (She likes her tea strong, and fucking with a strap-on. Love 'em and leave 'em kind of girl, a real heartbreaker. The Bull can respect that.) Two full mugs now; the Bull starts wearing his down while Dorian smiles and shakes his head. “Perish the thought.”

“I'm only saying, if you're up for helping out, it can't be anything a few rounds of—”

As quickly as it formed, Dorian's smile departs. “You're avoiding the question. I should know, being a master of the art.”

The Bull sighs, and looks across the bar with no particular subject in mind. It'd been a hard ride, and the five of them – well, you never knew with Cole – had been exhausted since their arrival in the late afternoon. Easy enough to claim that excuse. He sure hasn't noticed anything else being the matter with him until Dorian just pointed it out, but now that Dorian _has_ pointed it out...

It's getting quieter in the tavern. The Chargers wound down maybe an hour ago, though Bit and Grim haven't looked up from their card game, and the soldiers are supposed to keep hours that don't leave them drinking this late. Plenty of the civilian patrons also have jobs to do in the early morning, so they're gone too. Most of the tables and booths stand empty, and there's a couple folks at the bar and then the table where the Bull sits across from Dorian, a couple feet of defenses that could belong to either of them right now.

A table, two mugs, and space in front of both of them to show their hands.

“Not sure I have an answer for you,” the Bull admits.

Dorian nods slowly, and takes a long drink of the ale. Sets it back down. “I hear even master spies don't know everything.” The smile returns for an instant. “But I'd prefer you kept that a secret between you and me and most certainly not Leliana. Still, even she.”

“Even handsome mages who set things on fire and raise the dead?” It's a chance that pays off when Dorian laughs, and though he holds his cards, he sets his hand on the table. A gate, ajar.

“Even them, I suspect.”

The opening's there. It's right there and still the Bull hesitates. For what reason? None he can explain. What's one more leap of faith, anyway. All that can happen is that Dorian turns him down. “But hey, if you want to know a few more things...”

There's a moment that obviously takes only seconds but slows to a crawl; the minute twitching of Dorian's resting hand, the barest disruption of the ale in his mug, the way his cheeks pull in as he catches the insides between his teeth. His shoulders straighten. Time resumes as he opens his mouth. “Oh, I suppose. In the interest of knowledge gained,” says Dorian, but he's smiling again, and it's a little bit dangerous.

Still, to be sure: “You suppose?”

“Bull, of all my priorities, you should be aware that I consider expanding my education paramount.” Dorian shakes his head, drains his ale, gets up from his seat. Gates opened, waiting for an entrance. “If you have something to teach, I am quite willing to learn.”

Dorian, still dark from the sun; Dorian, stepping around the table; Dorian, extending a hand to help the Bull up. “So,” he asks, “are you coming?”

“You'll have to put more work in than that,” the Bull says, grinning wide in the victory of a long campaign finally brought to fruition. “I'm only getting started.”

-

This is how it happens:

Dorian's laughing again, shirt off and fumbling with the buckles strapping his pants to him, while the Bull does his level best to distract him enough to pass on the job. It's working. Dorian shivers when the Bull drags his two-fingered hand, long-nailed, lightly up his chest and around the back of his neck, and makes a low, needy sound when the Bull bites and pulls at his lower lip. His arms relax, his hands go loose, and there's the opportunity the Bull's been waiting for.

Too fast for Dorian to react, the Bull grabs both his wrists, intending to put them somewhere out of the way – but Dorian moans when captured, and apparently the Bull might have just stumbled into one hell of a thing for restraint. He has to grin against Dorian's mouth, until Dorian pulls away, swollen lips and blown pupils and glaring the best he can under the circumstances.

It's kind of impressive, given how far gone he is.

“You like that?” the Bull asks, though it's obvious that Dorian does. Just polite to make sure Dorian knows the Bull picked up on it.

“Oh, I'm not sure.” Dorian's voice is surprisingly steady, just a little bit teasing. He leans up to hang his mouth just in front of the Bull's, coy. “Why don't you experiment further?”

The bed's not far, but the Bull pushes them into the wall instead, pins Dorian against it hard enough to take his breath away. “Works for me,” the Bull says, shoving a knee between Dorian's legs for another small sound.

Dorian might not have his hands, but he's got his teeth, and he bites down not gently at all on the Bull's clavicle, enough to hurt even through thick qunari skin. It goes straight down the Bull's spine and through to his dick, not from the pain so much as the force of it and that Dorian could do it in the first place. The Bull bends at the knees and bares his neck; Dorian takes the hint and uses his teeth there, too.

There's been fantasies, a whole lot of 'em. Sometimes while he fucked someone else, often while he waited to fall asleep in his tent – but sometimes, cooling off after a practice session; sometimes on the road, sometimes in the Herald's Rest, sometimes for no reason at all in the middle of concentrating on something else. The ways he'd have Dorian, the things he'd want to give Dorian, the places to take him. The marks he'd leave. The kinds of sounds Dorian would make. Whether he would melt into it or give as good as he got.

The Bull collected a lot of truths, but out of order. Dorian's breath hitches, but he's frugal with his moans. When the Bull finds his mouth again, he shoves against it, flexing his hands but never struggling in the Bull's grip. When – if – they get a repeat performance, the Bull's gonna talk about watchwords, and see if Dorian will struggle then. Of all the things he should've expected and somehow didn't, it seems like Dorian wants a fight, and he wants to lose.

“You're fucking gorgeous like this,” the Bull breathes into his mouth. He doesn't miss the shiver it sends through Dorian, pressed up against him so close.

Dorian still laughs, though that's shivery too. “I'm gorgeous all the time.”

He's not wrong. The Bull watches him enough to know. Still— “Yeah. But right now, you're gorgeous for me.”

A pause, just enough for doubt to start lurking around the edges, and then Dorian grinds against his leg, humming. “Mm, yes, and I thank you for appreciating the gift properly. Which, incidentally—” and here he looks pointedly down to the half-undone buckles on his pants— “you have yet to finish unwrapping.”

Somehow the Bull hadn't anticipated how Dorian would be just as mouthy in the heat of lust as in any other situation, and he hadn't anticipated how fucking hot it would be, either. He can't tell if he's being held at the figurative arm's length, or if Dorian just can't turn it off. He can't help hoping it's the second.

The wall is rough stone, it's gotta be cold against Dorian's back, but for once Dorian doesn't seem bothered to complain. When the Bull releases his hands, he brings them to the Bull's horns – maybe he remembers the conquering line, which apparently got to him after all, or maybe he's just trying to make the Bull's job easier. The pants aren't a simple task to get rid of. The robe looked even worse, though.

Pulling the buckles apart, getting Dorian out of those weird pants entirely, he lets his hands explore the configuration of their fastenings. There's a pattern to them. It'll take time to learn, but it's there, and when the Bull pieces it together he'll learn it with his teeth, tie Dorian to his bed and swallow him down and take him apart like that. He's got enough information now to picture Dorian's face and the quick small noises he makes, the smell of his sweat and skin. And now, the coarse curling hair above his dick, and the stiffness of it against the Bull's thigh.

Dorian pulls himself up again by the Bull's horns and rolls his hips, lazily. A smile shared between them, and the Bull moves his hands to map out the shape of Dorian's ass and the muscle that makes it, as well-honed as the rest of him. The Bull squeezes; Dorian sighs.

“Yeah?” asks the Bull.

“Yeah,” Dorian replies.

They move like that, the Bull kissing Dorian hard enough to press his shoulders to the wall. He guides Dorian's hips against his thigh until they're pressed together, dicks sliding against each other, both of them making bitten off noises, grunts and moans and hums and gasps. Dorian doesn't let go of the Bull's horns, holding the Bull's mouth in place and giving himself the leverage to rock forward, back. He's gone pliant now. Still as demanding as ever.

The tables turned: the Bull had meant to take Dorian apart, but he's the one losing himself in it, while Dorian smiles sharp against the Bull's mouth like like he's planned this all along. Like he's been playing the long game, waiting it out until the Bull went mad with it.

If this is the madness of the Tal-Vashoth, the Bull can live with it.

But he needs to see Dorian lose it, too. He pulls back his head to see again the desire in Dorian's face, eyes lidded heavy and swollen lips parted, colour high on his cheekbones. Taking one hand from Dorian's ass, he spits into it to avoid what chafing he can before curling around Dorian's dick, and that gets the helpless moan he's been angling for. Dorian thrusts into his grip, whining, and the Bull has to kiss him again.

There's no friction against the Bull's dick now, but that doesn't really matter with Dorian finally falling apart, opening up for him to take control of the slide of their mouths. Losing his grip on the Bull's horns. With his other hand, the Bull collects both Dorian's wrists to press them against the wall over Dorian's head, for another gasp, and the Bull's heady with it, desperate to feel his orgasm. It's been – hah – a long time coming.

It's cold stone behind Dorian, the warmth from the fire lit in the hearth against the Bull's back. The Bull murmurs passing things that weigh important on his tongue between kisses; _I want to give you what you need, let me make you feel good, you're beautiful, I've wanted to give it to you like this for way too long, fuck, Dorian, do you know what you do to me_?  


Dorian moans, gasps, pushes back against the Bull's mouth with all the shaky strength he has. He swears both in Common and old Tevene between bites. The Bull plays him like Dorian plays his oud, in phrases, pauses, finding patterns and losing them again. Dorian makes a choking sound when he comes, not so much a groan as the low cousin of a shout, breathing aah, aah, aah with the aftershocks. The Bull pulls back to look at him and aches, both in his groin and somewhere in the area of his lungs; thinks, _I did that_.

He has to remember to let go of Dorian's arms, but doesn't catch Dorian in time. At first it seems like Dorian's sinking to his knees too boneless to stand, but then he's reaching up to hold the Bull by the hips and looks up with a smirk. “Can I?” he asks, like the Bull's gonna be able to say no.

“Fuck, yeah,” the Bull tells him anyway, and his smile curls playful before he brings down his hands to grasp the Bull's erection with both. A moment of hesitation, because yeah, the Bull's pretty damn big compared to any human, but then Dorian narrows his eyes and stretches his jaw from side to side with a faint crack. Then, shifting his hands to give him room, he ducks down to lick up the underside of the Bull's dick in one steady slide. The Bull's hands flex without him planning on it.

Dorian looks up again, and fuck, he looks exactly like a cat in the cream. “You can pull my hair,” he says, smirking again. “I promise you, I don't mind at all. You needn't be gentle with me.” And before the Bull can think up a response, Dorian opens his mouth and sucks the head of Bull's dick into it.

Obviously he's had practice – both by the skill and confidence in the way he plies his tongue, and by the experience he must have had. But the Bull hadn't expected how much Dorian would enjoy it, eyes falling shut and moaning, far louder and longer than when he was getting stroked off. He pulses his hands, sweat half-dried and too sticky for any kind of smooth glide. When he's mapped out the Bull's head, he pushes forward another inch and does the whole routine all over again.

The Bull tangles a hand in Dorian's hair, as suggested, and Dorian chuckles around the Bull's dick and pushes forward again, taking more in but also pulling at the Bull's grip. With a shaky laugh of his own, the Bull twists at Dorian's hair. Dorian hums, an extra vibration, and then lets one hand fall away to swallow the Bull into his throat.

It's more than the Bull had expected, way deeper than most humans he's slept with ever bother to attempt, and he can feel the tightness in his balls growing stronger. Not long to go. The Bull groans with it, and then Dorian swallows again and pulls back until he's only mouthing at the tip. He raises his eyes and smiles, really smiles, without any kind of guile. “Bull.” His eyes have crinkled; miraculously, he's not just enjoying himself, he looks happy. “I want you to fuck my face.”

“Shit,” the Bull says, and it's all he can say, but Dorian smiles wider before opening his mouth to take the Bull into it again. He doesn't close his lips, expectant, and the Bull grabs his hair the harder and thrusts, pushing him forward, racing all the faster to the edge at Dorian's moans and his hands clawing at the Bull's pelvis. _You needn't be gentle_ , Dorian said, so the Bull lets himself give up more control. Dorian receives it, all enthusiasm.

From there it doesn't take long. The Bull had already been well on his way by the time he finished Dorian off, and Dorian is really good with his mouth and achingly beautiful when he gives himself up to the moment, to the Bull.

It's amazing, he comes hard, but it's the sharp swell of his chest that stays with him, the way for an instant he sees a future of having this, having Dorian, for a long time, together.

-

Another summer's day with Vivienne out on the wall, she with her sketches, the Bull staring down at the courtyard without really seeing it. Vivienne says something, far away, but it doesn't reach his ears; it won't resolve into words. The sun is warm, but he's still feeling the scorch from last night – Dorian, up against the wall losing his mind but keeping his wits, Dorian, kneeling in front of him and filling that mouth of his way more than a man with his first qunari should be able to take. The way he'd moaned into it. The way he'd looked the Bull dead in the eye, beaming: _I want you to fuck my face_. The hugeness of that moment—

A hand on his shoulder. The Bull wrenches back to himself and turns around to look at Vivienne. She's smiling, but there's concern in her eyes as well.

“Bull,” she says, not sharp but stern, “you've drifted off again.”

Snap out of it. Dorian's hot, but hot shouldn't be enough to get under his skin like that. “Sorry, ma'am.” He ducks his head. “Maybe it's something I ate.”

“Perhaps.” Vivienne takes his chin with one cool hand, guides him with it to inspect his face. “You don't appear to be ill. Simply distracted.” An eyebrow, raised. “And, I suspect, very pleasantly so.” She pats the Bull once on the cheek and takes her hand away, settles it in her lap, and watches him patiently for long seconds.

There's not really a point in keeping secrets from Vivienne. Honestly, he doesn't even want to. If the Bull had it his way he'd be bragging to anyone who'd listen about fucking phenomenal Dorian is, how triumphant he feels that Dorian really did want him all along. That Dorian asked. “Yeah,” the Bull says, and lets the satisfaction colour his voice. “You could definitely say that.”

The look Vivienne sends him now is sharp, but smiling too. Bit like Skinner, when she's just about to unleash some new move on Krem that'll take him down hard. Less feral, of course. If Skinner's some mongrel cat, Vivienne's one of those long-limbed cats they keep in Rivain, fancy looking but deadly as any Fereldan attack dog.

“I did wonder,” Vivienne says. “I spoke to Dorian earlier, and he was flustered beyond repair. I do hope you were careful with him; the man does love playing with fire.”

The Bull laughs. “He's a tough guy. He can take it.”

“I'm quite happy for you, darling.” Vivienne looks back down at her sketch, turns it lengthwise, and frowns. The frown stays put when she starts inspecting the Bull again. Her hand returns to his jaw, to lift it, and then she catalogues the bite marks Dorian left there. “I hope that he was careful with you, as well.”

“What, Dorian?” The Bull shrugs; Vivienne's hand falls away. “He gives as good as he gets, but he's not gonna do damage unless he starts using magic. Might get into that later, if he wants to go again, but it's not exactly a first date kind of deal.”

Vivienne steeples her fingers, as if the Bull just told her something he didn't know about. “A date, then?”

“Figure of speech,” says the Bull.

“I see.”

With the boss still out in the Western Approach, the summer heat, the warm stone, it should be a pretty lazy afternoon. A glint of gold puts Josephine in the garden, though she's gotta be working there anyway. Blackwall hauls feed for Dennet with his sleeves rolled up. Long lines of laundry air in the sun, strung from the wall and the bridge walkway to a wooden pole near the healing tents – mostly civilians' clothes, but a couple of Dalish's tunics hang toward the middle of the furthest line, and the Bull recognises his own pants lower down. Apparently Grim went on one of his washing sprees.

A concession to the warm day; Vivienne's wearing one of her lighter robes again, leggings rolled up to the knee. She's barefoot, too, showing the paler underside of her feet, one of those weird human skin patterns. But despite the slow movement of the day she's still watching the Bull with her eyebrows in tight, lips thinned.

“Bull.” Her voice, unhurried but precise, warns that whatever she's about to ask is gonna need a thoughtful answer, not a joke. “You're clearly fond of our Dorian Pavus. How might you describe your feelings toward him?”

“My feelings?”

It'd be easy to make a joke of it too, at that, but Vivienne never lets him get away with it when she wants a straight answer. Sure, he knows that she gets to him because she looks and acts just like one of the tamassrans who raised him, but that never stops him from responding in kind. It's good. After the disaster of an attempt to forge an alliance with Par Vollen – after he'd turned Tal-Vashoth – Vivienne had been the one to sit him down and inform him that he would not be going mad, thank you kindly, because she believed firmly that he had purpose enough of his own. However, she’d added, should he require outside intervention she wouldn't hesitate to knock some sense into him and drag him off by the ear.

Ending up surrounded by and relying on a bunch of mages sure hadn't been the plan, but it's nowhere near as bad as he once might have thought.

Vivienne's still waiting for an answer. “He's a friend. I'm fond of the guy, even though he tried his best to make us enemies early on. Didn't really think much of him, back then, but you know? There's a gooey center in there. He's a good guy.”

A nod, but Vivienne gestures for him to continue. That's not so easy, putting more into words. “I'm... proud of him, I guess. He's come a long way, dealt with a lot of shit. Gotten over himself way more than that pampered noble 'Vint he used to be, even if he still complains about everything.” The Bull waves his hand in front of him like that'll say anything. Grins when it comes to him. “He's a damn good fuck, too. All the work I put in? Worth it.”

“Mm,” Vivienne hums, eyebrows finally clearing up. “I can see that.”

She doesn't look like she's planning to say anything else, but turnabout's fair play. “So. What was the point of that?”

“A point of curiosity, my dear.” She smiles, a small thing, but real enough. “I find your tenacity rather significant. It's unlike you.”

“Dunno.” The Bull shrugs. “Dorian's special that way.”

Her smile fades just a hair, but she nods, satisfied, and turns her attention back to her sketches. “Do mind yourself, darling. These are waters in which you haven't yet swum, I suspect, and it doesn't do to fall in too deep, or too soon.”

It doesn't make sense, but it doesn't seem wrong, either. Vivienne knows a lot about treading water.

-

Things with Dorian don't get weird after that night, just distracting. The Bull catches him staring, sometimes, and his eyes will flick away but then back, a rueful smile on his face. Flashbacks catch the Bull unexpected, jolting but nice, a warmth rising in his gut to his chest, to the back of his head. He catches himself staring, too, and grins when Dorian turns around to find him.

Dorian raises an eyebrow, and smiles back.

A day goes by, and another. They've all got work to do, the Bull training with his Chargers and minding the bookkeeping, the supplies and earnings and where the gold goes. Vivienne manages the Inquisition's answer to the Circles, which she's great at, but doesn't exactly approve of. Which is probably why she's the best one for the job. Sera's out doing target practice or flirting with one or another of the Valo-Kas mercs, who signed on long-term after Cullen promised a pretty constant stream of demon-killing jobs. And Dorian has his research, still tracking down Corypheus' origins and searching for the significance of the elven artifacts the Venatori have been trying to gather.

The Bull shows up in the library on the second day, not bothering with an excuse, and leans on one of the wall-mounted bookshelves. Despite his scowl, Dorian looks pretty pleased to see him. “Run out of things to hit?” he asks, which amounts to a friendly greeting by pissy mage standards.

“Someone's gotta pick up the slack when Cassandra's not around.” The Bull grins, and Dorian snorts. Decisive, he shuts his latest tome, and leans back in his chair to give the Bull his full attention. For no good reason, something below the Bull's ribcage jumps, sort of like he's eaten something that's gone off. It isn't a bad feeling. “I know it's hard to believe, but I don't spend my entire day swinging an axe around.”

“Oh, I'm quite aware,” says Dorian, drawing out his vowels and letting his eyelids fall just so slightly. He knows, he has to know, exactly what he's doing.

The Bull shakes his head. Worst part is, it's working. “Finally picked that up, did you?”

“Well, if you're doubting me...” Dorian places two fingers over his mouth to trail along his mustache, resting the thumb on the line of his jaw and curling the remaining fingers underneath. The edge returns to his smile. “I'm sure I could use a reminder. If you've the time, between hitting things and whatever else fills your days.”

Well, that's promising.

“Think I can clear my schedule,” the Bull replies, and Dorian's smile grows wide and wicked.

-

He leaves his door open again. This time, he finds a reason to close it pretty damn fast.

-

“So,” says Sera, plopping down next to Bull in the tavern. “Heard you finally got in them tight leathers. Took him long enough.”

Most likely she caught on and has been giving Dorian grief for it, so there's no reason to bother with not kissing and telling. “The chase makes it all the sweeter and all that,” the Bull replies, and Sera snickers.  She's got an impressively yellow-green and purple mark of her own, peeking out the collar, so at least one of the Valos-Kas women put out. Good for her. Everyone's fantasies, coming true.

“So?” There's no way Sera wants the gritty details, so the Bull waits for her to add something else, feigning utter innocence. Sera sticks out her tongue. “Was it like Cassie's dirty books? Did you – what was it – _collapse together in ecstasy_? Ugh, 'ecstasy,' that sounds gross. Did you hold his hand? Did you _whisper sweet nothings into his ear?_ ”

The Bull takes a drink, and then rolls his eyes. “Think you're getting your sex and your romance mixed up.”

“That ain't a no.” Gleefully she swipes the Bull's mug. “Like you know romance from shirts. Wouldn't even know it if it barged into your room and bellyached about the hole in the ceiling.”

That hits a little close to the truth. Not about the Bull not knowing romance, because Qunari, but Dorian had done exactly that the second time he showed up. “Hey,” he says, “I've worn shirts before.”

“Never seen it, don't believe it.”

She returns the Bull's ale, diminished, and crosses her arms. “Maybe you don't get it. Everyone's stupid about something. You already got that stupid grin when he's not looking, yeah? It's not even a secret, except for Dorian, cause he's stupid about Dorian, too.”

The Bull laughs at that. “Only about that?”

“Pfft, no way. Dorian's stupid about everything. Least he admits it.” Sera reaches out with her foot to prod at the Bull's bum knee. “You, you're all besotted and shite but you don't even see it.”

“Haven't drunk nearly enough for besotted,” the Bull replies, and Sera punches him in the arm. Now that she's mentioned it, though, besotted drunk sounds pretty great, and he devotes the evening to getting there. The gang's almost all here, and they trickle in as the night progresses. Krem raises his eyebrows at the Bull, with the shit-eating grin the Bull's starting to regret teaching him, and the full assembly of Chargers present start yelling and cat-calling when Dorian shows up at the door.

Maybe only six months ago, Dorian would've flinched and turned on his heel to walk away. Time's been good to him since, though. It's a wild thought, but maybe the Bull's been good for him, too. Whatever it is, instead of shutting down, Dorian makes a flourishing bow and saunters the rest of the way over to take his seat between Sera and the Bull. And if the Bull never makes it even close to shitfaced, well, he has a damn good night, anyway. The morning's not half-bad either.

-

The boss gets back eventually. Not for long, of course; trouble's still brewing out in the west, and the stakes are only gonna keep getting higher, but for now she's got her sights set on that dragon in Crestwood, and she's taking everyone else down with her.

It's a fucking glorious morning that they head out, but then, all the days have been pretty damn beautiful lately. Could be the Bull's just expecting to see it, or seeing it enough that it bleeds out into everything else his eyes fall upon. And it's not escaping him, how this too brings his mind right back to Dorian.

The Bull had expected that sex with Dorian would be great, but he hadn't known just how great. He'd hoped that when it happened there'd be repeat performances, but he sure hadn't expected how much he would ache for it. How relieved he'd been when Dorian didn't scare off. Or that thought he'd had that first night, that he's been turning over in his head ever since, of a future that had Dorian in it. Was that supposed to mean something?

The Inquisition has lived in Skyhold almost a year, now, long enough that the mountains Vivienne sketches have grown comfortable, familiar. Dorian survived the winter, Cassandra the summer. Josephine knelt in the garden one morning to gaze up at Scout Harding before they kissed. That's romance, isn't it? Harding had blushed pink while Josephine giggled; they'd kept kissing. Sera knocks hips with that Valos-Kas skirmisher, who pats her on the ass in parting, but that's apparently not romance. The boss had held Dorian so long after the meeting with his father, but that's the kind of love the Bull's used to.

Stick with the facts. _Dorian's special_ , he'd said to Vivienne, and _I'm fond of the guy_. _You're gorgeous for me_ , he'd told Dorian, and later Dorian had smiled at him with nothing clouding his happiness at all. He recalls the smell of jasmine that had haunted him long after the vial had run dry. The sandalwood scent is still sitting in his pack, waiting for the right time for him to make the gift. That warmth that keeps expanding in his chest, like it's doing right now, as he turns to look at Dorian.

Ah, Sera's right. What does the Iron Bull know about romance? Does it even matter what he calls it?

Dorian turns to catch his eye, that expression on his face that says he's ready to spar, but hesitates at whatever goofy grin the Bull's wearing. _Just because you don't, doesn't mean you can't_ , says Sera in his head. _Do continue_ , Dorian had told him in the Emerald Graves. And oh, the Bull plans to do just that.

“So, Dorian,” he says, the same tone of voice as when he'd mentioned, months ago by now, that his door was always open. The sun's bright, Dorian's right there now, and was in the Bull's bed this morning. He'd hinted rather strongly that he meant to be there again. To hell to keeping it all inside.

“About last night...”

****  



End file.
